Soup du Jour
by Bryony
Summary: Cathy loves soup. But it's times like this she hates her brother.


Disclaimer: _Gundam Wing_ is not mine. This story is not for profit -- please don't sue.

_A/N:_ Go visit the GW forums! Post! Be inspired! Keep the fandom alive! Also: Holy cow, this was written in under a month: It's a midsummer miracle!

Soup du Jour

by Bryony

_Men._ Trust them never to do anything right. After a fruitless search, Catherine shut the fridge door and shouted her brother's name. Suddenly, her eyes narrowed with suspicion and she flung open one of the cabinets, gasping with horror at what she saw inside. "Trowa!" she shouted again, tapping her foot impatiently until he appeared. "Just what is this?" she demanded, chucking the offending item at his head.

Trowa caught it easily, giving the can a brief glance before replying, "It's French onion soup."

Cathy raised a finger, correcting him. "It's _condensed_ French onion soup. Why did you buy that? You may have been raised by a bunch of dirty mercenaries when you were a kid, Trowa, but you're among civilized people now, and civilized people do _not_ eat condensed soup! I thought you and I went over that ages ago. _And_," she hurried on when Trowa appeared ready to interrupt, "where are my shallots? They were at the very top of that shopping list I gave you and I can't find them anywhere."

"I didn't get them," he replied, tossing the can of soup back to her and provoking an angry splutter.

"You - didn't -- why not?" she wailed. "How can I submit my recipe to _Soup du Jour Magazine_ without perfecting it first? That takes trial and error, Trowa!"

The first hint of irritation began gleaming in Trowa's eye. "I don't see why it's so important," he retorted, a little huffily. "It's just some stupid magazine contest." Cathy gaped, actually struck dumb momentarily by what she was hearing. Trowa took the opportunity of her silence to continue, "Besides, what's so special about shallots, anyway? What's wrong with using regular onions? That's why it's called onion soup, isn't it?"

"If you're going to make _French_ onion soup, you should use _French_ onions, don't you think? Shallots…" (Cathy's eyes became rapturously glazed over as she launched into her explanation.) "Shallots are so much more than simple onions. Their flavor is much more refined. And their texture, oh, Trowa, their texture is just superb…!"

"Well I can't tell the difference," he cut in, dismissively waving her words aside. "And I bet your magazine judges can't either. In any case we can't afford them. You'll have to wait until the next time we're on the Earth."

Catherine's eyes widened in dismay. In her excitement over the contest she'd forgotten all about the extra shipping costs and taxes on importing luxury foodstuffs from Earth, and that threw off her budget calculations considerably. Oh, how she missed those wonderful supermarkets and open air stalls brimming with fresh produce! Why couldn't _Soup du Jour_ have posted its contest a month ago while the circus was still touring Europe? She could have done so much there… All of those fabulous Mediterranean ingredients and flavors… Her mouth was watering just thinking about it! And for Trowa to just callously trample her dream! Cathy felt like crying. This was a low blow indeed.

Still, she was a resilient girl and this setback wouldn't stop her for long. She'd just have to figure out a cheaper option. "Well…maybe a new twist on an old classic then. Like simple vegetable soup. Oh! Or gumbo! What do you think, Trowa?"

He looked less than enthusiastic. "To be honest, Cathy," he said, rather hesitantly, "I'm starting to get a little tired of soup. We've had it almost every day since I met you. Can't we ever eat solid food?"

Catherine frowned. Trowa's palate obviously wasn't as developed as she had given him credit for. She could have sworn she'd laid out the numerous qualities soup had, making it superior to normal mash, soon after taking Trowa under her roof. And judging by his quiet acceptance and willingness to eat whatever she put in front of him, she had thought she'd made a convert out of him. But apparently that was not the case after all. How typical. She heaved a heavy sigh and began to explain again.

"…I just don't understand this obsession people have with solid food!" she exclaimed. "Soup gives you all the nutritional benefits you need, it's portable, it's convenient, and it's so much healthier for you. Why doesn't everyone have soup more often?"

"Well there's not much variety -"

"Oh, please! Just look at everything you can do with soup! There are chowders, there are stews, there are meat soups and vegetable soups, thin soups and creamy soups, hot soups and cold soups… I could go on for hours!"

"I know," Trowa remarked dryly, but Catherine paid him no mind.

"The point," she declared, "is that everyone would be much better off if they gave up their solid foods and converted to soup."

"Or," Trowa retorted, annoyance peppering his tone, "it could be that everything else you cook isn't even fit to feed the lions."

Cathy spun around from her position at the sink, where she'd begun to pour out the condensed French onion soup Trowa had bought, to pin her brother with a disbelieving look. He looked ever so slightly surprised at himself, but not at all apologetic. Her eyes narrowed and she couldn't contain the sharp reply boiling on her tongue.

"That's an interesting point, Trowa. You know something else that's interesting? I don't see you stepping up to do much cooking around here! And as long as I'm the one manning the pots and pans in this house I'm going to be cooking what I like. So if you want to eat something else, why don't you go get into your -- your _Gundam_ -- and slaughter something the old fashioned way!"

He met her gaze head on for a second, eyes blazing, then just turned around and walked out. Cathy sucked in a big breath of air as her words sank into her brain, wincing as she heard the trailer door bang shut. "I'm an idiot," she muttered.

After giving herself (and Trowa) a few minutes to calm down she followed him outside, scanning the campgrounds to see where her brother had gone off to. Not surprisingly, she could just make him out over by the lion cage and ran over. "Hey," she said breathlessly when she'd caught up with him, "I'm sorry for what I said in there, it was really cruel of me. I didn't really mean it."

"It's okay. I'm sorry for what I said about your cooking too. It's really not that bad."

"Not that bad?" Cathy teased, lightly punching Trowa's shoulder. "These lions would be darn lucky to get a taste of my cooking." She hesitated a second, then said, "If you're really that tired of soup, Trowa, I wish you'd have said something sooner. You always eat everything, so how am I supposed to know whether you like it or not?"

He leaned thoughtfully back against the bars of Bozo's cage. "It's not that I don't like soup -- or that I don't like _your_ soup," he said, "but I enjoy other things too. I guess I could start cooking sometimes. That would be a fair solution."

Cathy grinned. This was turning out better than she'd imagined -- who was she to say no to one less chore? "Well here's an idea," she suggested. "I still need to figure out what to send in for my recipe, and you obviously need some practice expressing your opinion…" (She smiled sweetly at his dirty look.) "So why don't you be my guinea pig? That way I'll be sure to send in my best recipe! And I'll know what not to make for you in the future." She winked to show she was teasing.

"I guess that would be okay," Trowa replied, turning and starting to head back towards the trailer. She followed him happily. As they walked, Trowa glanced over at her and said, "You know I got rid of HeavyArms after the war, right?"

-end-


End file.
